


Thirty-Two Ways to Leave Your Lover

by MoonBalloon



Category: One Direction, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Cigarettes, Come Shot, Come Swallowing, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, blowjob, handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 12:09:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/597588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonBalloon/pseuds/MoonBalloon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They pretend they’re not lovers and it’s easy enough in the darkness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirty-Two Ways to Leave Your Lover

**Author's Note:**

> To the tune of Aiden Grimshaw’s "Curtain Call"

 Harry’s always wanted too much, needed too much, Zayn knows. So when Harry shows up at his door at four in the morning – head bent, hands shaking, cheeks shining with tears – he pulls the boy in. It’s the only thing he knows to do – same routine, same dance. He did it after Cher, did it after Louis, and he’ll do it now after Caroline because Harry _needs_ it, and because Zayn still hasn’t figured out how to say no to the dimple that appears under Harry’s chin when he’s holding back tears.

 They fall into bed clumsily - not for lack of practice, but because Harry’s shaking with sobs and Zayn’s shaking with anger. There’s a thick layer of knitted jumpers and T-shirts between them, but god damn him if Zayn can’t feel Harry’s heart pounding erratically against his own. Harry sobs out explanations and resentments and _“What’s so fucking wrong about it? They don’t understand,”_ fingers and lips insistent against Zayn’s skin. Harry’s anger burns strong, laced with anguish, and it’s agony for Zayn too because he doesn’t know what to say this time. His usual tactic of switching between pithy platitudes and gentle words _(plenty more fish in the sea, mate; he still loves you, Harry)_ won’t go far tonight. Because Harry _liked_ Caroline, was completely and utterly smitten with her. Awed. And as much as Zayn hated it, as much as he resented the charming bastard for leaving him again, Zayn was happy. Happy because Harry was happy, because that disgustingly dimpled smile was permanently etched on his face for four glorious months, even if it wasn’t meant for him.

 But the smile’s gone now and all that’s left are Harry’s quivering lips and desperate, mumbled pleas, and Zayn doesn’t know what to do. Well, he does, but he’s sure it’s not the right thing this time. Harry’s cut up over someone he’s waxed poetic about for months now and Zayn’s cut up over his best friend who won’t give him the time of day until _he_ wants it. Until _he_ needs Zayn’s love and reassuring arms and skillful tongue again.

-//-

 The house is dark when he wakes up, all the curtains pulled shut against the weak, wintery sunlight outside. Harry’s in the kitchen as always. Zayn sits at the island and watches him make the same breakfast they have every morning after they fuck – sliced peaches and savory crepes. They’re not drunk, but it’s tradition to pretend otherwise and they take refuge in routine, so Zayn gets up to do his part. By the time he’s fished out a pack of Camel Blue 99s and finished rolling two joints, Harry has their breakfast and two bottles of Guinness Black laid out on the living room coffee table. Niall’s rubbed off on them.

 Harry stands at the foot of the sofa and stares at Zayn, worrying his bottom lip and fidgeting with the kitchen towel in his hands. Zayn goes to him and pulls him in for a kiss that Harry melts into. The kitchen towel drops to the floor – damn, he’d just washed it too. Harry couldn’t care less; he’s already pushing down Zayn’s trousers, but Zayn steps back before Harry can start manhandling him and points imperiously to the sofa. They turn off their phones for once and watch BBC Four while they eat because Harry always insists on it.

 When they’ve finished their breakfast and beer in silence, Zayn undoes the string of his flimsy sweats because Harry’s favorite breakfast food after a night like they’ve just had is Zayn’s cum. Harry slides down the sofa to Zayn’s knee, cheeks flushed and lips red – he’s been biting them all morning – and as he wraps his raspberry red lips around Zayn’s cock, he breaks their tacit agreement and moans out loud.

 Harry’s movements are smooth and practiced. He subscribes to the all or nothing way of life, so he only lets Zayn get a few thrusts in before spreading a huge hand across Zayn’s hips to hold him still and settling down to work. Harry’s much better at taking than giving – this is by no means the best blowjob Zayn’s had, technically speaking. But Harry’s enthusiasm makes up for his lack of skill. Zayn closes his eyes and reaches down, blindly feeling until he finds Harry’s hand on his hips and clutches it – a desperate attempt to tether them together.

 Harry loves the absence of foreskin on Zayn and he licks the head now, hollowing out his cheeks and sucking until Zayn has to fist Harry’s curls and pull his head up so Harry doesn’t inhale his dick. Harry sucks cock the way he eats – tongue out first, lips later. Zayn reaches down to run his thumb along Harry’s jawline, taps the bulge in Harry’s cheek as a warning before gently pushing his head down on his cock. Harry’s gotten better at deep-throating, Zayn thinks. He doesn’t have to wrap his lips around anymore; he’s learned to keep his jaw slack and mouth open. Harry’s retching a little and has a death grip on Zayn’s other hand, but he lets Zayn hold his head down on his dick, humming happily – ever the people-pleaser. Sometimes Zayn thinks getting people off gets Harry off.

 His thoughts are cut off mid-way because Harry drags his teeth lightly over Zayn’s dick, something he knows Zayn hates. He looks down to see Harry giving him a disapproving look. _Look at me._ Zayn supposes he should pay more attention to the way Harry’s stroking his own cock and _wow, when did he take off his shorts?_

 Harry hums around his cock again, and the vibration of Harry’s throat on his dick has Zayn moaning and scrambling for a cigarette. He gets as far as putting the cig to his lips, but it falls to the floor because Harry’s just licked the underside of his shaft with a twisted little flick, something you only do when you’re giving a girl head, and Zayn silently thanks Caroline before pulling Harry up and kissing him hard on the mouth. But Harry’s having none of that – he lays down on the floor, legs spread obscenely, and points wordlessly to Zayn’s bedroom.

 Zayn can take a hint.

 He returns with a bottle of lube and the entire box of condoms because, let’s face it, it’s never just once with them. Zayn gets down on his knees and tells Harry to ready himself for a long ride. Harry just smirks in response and Zayn knows he’ll be fucking Harry however many times the boy wants even if he’s tired and his muscles are screaming for relief because who can say no to those lips?

 They pretend they’re not lovers and it’s easy enough in the darkness. In the dim light of the muted TV, Zayn watches Harry’s swollen lips mutter filthy obscenities and ignores the way their hands are entwined over their heads.

 When they’re done, they lie beside each other, eyes closed and panting. Harry gets up first this time and lights a cigarette.

 Zayn watches him put it to his lips, suck in, then cough the smoke out all at once.

 He laughs. Harry’s never been much for smoking. “Don’t know why you try, you’ve always been shit at this… Cigarettes are a gateway drug, you know.”

 Harry scowls and takes another drag just to prove he can. “I think weed holds that title actually.”

 “Cigarettes too.”

 “Gateway to what, then?”

 “Come here.”

 Harry smokes a joint while Zayn finishes Harry’s cigarette and works through two more, and then Harry’s tugging at Zayn’s hips again. He barely has time to put the cig out before Harry pulls him on top and shoves a hand between them, stroking them both, while Zayn holds himself up and tries not to collapse. Harry slips the locket of his necklace between Zayn’s lips to keep him from moaning so loud. Zayn’s neighbors are a sweet elderly couple and they don’t need to hear this first thing in the morning.

 It’s all a haze of smoke and flashing lights from the TV after that and before he knows it, Zayn’s swallowing everything Harry has to give. It doesn’t take long after for him to let go, but Harry is a beat too slow to return the favor and Zayn can’t stop himself. When it’s all over, Harry’s lying under Zayn, covered in his cum, looking wet and wild and _free_.

 And Zayn thinks he won’t have Harry any other way. Well, he won’t have him at all. Because Harry wants too much, needs to much, loves too much, and Zayn can’t keep up – not with Harry Styles, no. Harry wraps an arm around Zayn’s shoulders, reaching up for another kiss, but that’s not what Zayn needs right now. He needs confirmation from Harry, he needs promises, he needs declarations of love whispered against his cock, _he needs, he needs, he needs…  
_

 But it’s not about him; it’s never about him. So he’ll give Harry what he wants, what he needs, what he takes, no matter how many times Zayn’s tried to refuse the boy, because it’s the only thing he knows how to do.

 “I love you, I love you, I love you,” Harry whispers into his neck, punctuating each declaration with kisses to his jugular, and Zayn knows he means it. He means it today and he’ll mean it tomorrow and every day after that until he dives in too deep, too fast with someone else.

 It’s easy to believe Harry now because Zayn doesn’t want to believe anything else. They’ve had a beer each and…  _in vino veritas,_ right?

 “I love you too,” Zayn confesses, tugging at Harry’s sweaty curls.

 Because he does.

 Zayn loves Harry, and sometimes Harry loves him too.

**Author's Note:**

> The last line is taken from Pablo Neruda's "Tonight I Can Write the Saddest Lines"  
> May possibly be a series of angst-y, Zarry one-shots. This is my first foray into slash, so bear with me, please.


End file.
